8 Months the Enemy
by Phantom-Voices
Summary: An alternative ending to the swordfight. How the whole end to the story could have gone so very differently. Based on the 2004 movie version.
1. A Fight To Remember

**8 months the Enemy**

**Disclaimer**: We don't own anything phantom related. Although we wish we owned Erik…

"Argh!"

Erik smiled inwardly as his sword sliced into the boy's arm, and danced forwards to finish him off, but Raoul was apparently more able than Erik had first thought, for he pushed himself up out of the snow and lunged at him. Their blades met once again with a resounding clash. They pulled away then locked again. They boy was desperate to finish it quickly now, Erik could tell. He leapt in with reckless charges, each one accompanied by the hiss of the sword, each one slowly driving Erik backwards. He could feel a gravestone at his back, and slipped around it with a swish of his sodden cloak. Raoul's sword rang resoundingly off the marble, missing him by a millimetre. Snow showered down into Erik's face, and with a cry of rage, the Phantom stabbed hard at Raoul's stomach as the Vicomte came round the stone. Their blades met again with a hiss of metal on metal. Erik felt the blow glance off the skull crosspiece of his smallsword. He pulled backwards, making Raoul come at him.

And tripped. He had not seen the snow covered stone. Ankle twisting hard underneath him, Erik toppled into the snow, turning his shout of pain into a shout of rage as Raoul swung his sword down to no doubt take his head off. Hearing Christine's gasp of fear, he paused for a moment. In that moment Erik had reached up, seized Raoul's boot and pulled hard forwards. Unprepared for that move, the younger man was pulled off balance, barely keeping his feet in the treacherous conditions. His blade, deflected, ripped Erik's shoulder open, crimson blood splattering the snow. Stepping forwards, an apparently surprised expression on his face, Raoul swung the sword back with two hands. The point pierced the masked man's cloak, shirt and finally his side. Erik felt his vision darken for a moment, the pain blinding him. Raoul took a step back, now intent on returning to Christine. He turned to run, but Erik, desperate, launched his sword forwards into the back of Raoul's leg.

Raoul fell with a yell of pain, the sword point still embedded in his calf. He let go of his own sword and fumbled around to yank Erik's blade out of his leg, trying to stand as he did so. He almost fell again, barely able to push himself up.

Erik lay behind him, groaning as he tried to pull himself together. Blood streamed down his side, soaking his dress shirt and trickling down his leg as he forced himself to stand, hand pressed tight over the wound. His mask had come loose in the fall and he fumbled it back into place. Hesitantly reaching down for his sword with his injured arm, he sensed Raoul turning back and clenched his fist tight. The black glove was coppery with his own blood.

Raoul didn't see the punch coming. He thought he had killed Erik with that wound, and he was turning merely to admire his own success. Instead, a black gloved fist pounded into his jaw, breaking the milk-coloured skin. What had been a swordfight broke down into a common brawl.

Erik clawed at Raoul's throat, trying to wrap his hands around it, to choke him, whilst Raoul rained blow after blow on his face, struggling to free himself. The Vicomte gasped, eyes almost popping out of his head as Erik finally got a hold and squeezed hard. He stopped punching.

After a moment, Erik took a shaky breath to calm himself. It wouldn't be good to kill the boy in front of Christine, despite the fact that he was a miserable fool. Slowly, he loosened his grip on Raoul.

"Go," he said, and the voice that spoke sounded strange to his own ears. "And may it be war upon you both."

Shakily, Raoul stood. Christine ran to him. Breathing hard, he limped over to his horse with his arm loosely around Christine, whose face was chalky white. She began to weep.

"It's okay Christine, you're safe now," he murmured as he mounted tentatively. The grey horse cantered off into the darkening light, leaving the graveyard silent except for an occasional moan.

Erik groaned, sprawled shivering in the snow, eyes half closed. His shirt was plastered to his side with scarlet blood. The colour of the roses to his angel. _How ironic_, he thought bitterly. He could feel it, taste it, sickening and foul in his mouth as he sat up, head reeling. Something in the air told him a storm was coming. The snow began to fall heavier, melting as it touched his burning face, feverish with pain and anger. He would kill that boy!

He staggered upright, pain searing through his side. It was tearing at his guts, ripping through his brain. He lurched forwards, weaving in and out of gravestones, the agony threatening to take over his consciousness. Knowing he couldn't fight it for much longer, he stumbled falteringly towards the church. He was barely up the steps before it came for him, and the pit into which he had been so unwilling to slip overwhelmed him. He fell, head landing heavily on the stone with a dull thud as everything went drunken and dark.

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Madame Giry looked out the small window near Christine's dressing room as she heard the grey horse clatter through the entrance. In the harsh blizzard it was difficult to see, but she knew Christine had gone to the cemetery and that Raoul had left shortly after, so she hurried down to the steps with her cane in hand. Still, she was quite unprepared for the scene that met her.

"Madame Giry!" Christine cried as she pulled the horse up. Raoul was slumped on the horse's neck, apparently unconscious, and the pair were shivering terribly.

"Christine!" Madame Giry called, hearing the fear in her voice. She ran to them, taking in Raoul's inert form and the blood on his shirt. "You did well Christine, you have got him back before it is too late," she added as people began to crowd out of the building, attracted by the commotion. Firmin and André pushed through the crowd.

"Madame Giry, I do hope nothing is amiss?" Firmin called, concerned.

"It's the Vicomte de Chagny Monsieur! He's been injured!"

Raoul was carried inside by Piangi and one of the stagehands, who laid him in one of the dressing rooms, where his wounds were wrapped. Christine sat quietly beside him, and by the time she was calm enough to speak, he had sufficiently regained consciousness to recount what had happened to the appalled crowd.

"It was the Phantom," Raoul said shakily, grimacing. "The Phantom of the Opera."

As he spoke, Madame Giry slipped towards the door. No one but Christine saw her go, the middle-aged woman with a finger to her lips and a cane in her hand. The door closed quietly behind her and Christine turned to Raoul, crying again.

"Do not cry," he murmured, wiping away her tears with one of his pale, slender fingers. She kissed his hand, then let her head rest on his chest, exhausted. The two of them fell asleep, Raoul with an arm around her tired body.

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Madame Giry hesitantly pushed open the graveyard gate and stepped inside, shoes crunching in the snow. She was wearing a black cloak and the wind tugged at the hood that hid her face. Stopping just inside the gate, she listened. The only noise was the whine of the wind as is played around the gravestones. Shivering and looking around warily, she followed the lightly covered hoof prints to Gustav Daae's gravestone. The footprints of the three had been covered by the heavy snow, but now and then she could still see them, faint in the pale moonlight. The blood was more visible. Behind the gravestone it stained the snow a deep red, and Madame Giry thought of Erik. Where was he now? He was injured, the Vicomte had said as much, but how badly she did not know. Why, he could have been back in his lair by now. But somehow, she knew that was not the case.

As she turned to walk on, Madame Giry almost tripped over and long silver object in the snow: A sword, with a skull on it, very much similar to the one which sealed his notes to the managers and various members of the opera. She bent to pick it up, moving quietly so that she would hear if anyone approached. The sword convinced her, if she had needed convincing, that Erik was still around. But still there was silence.

"Erik?" Madame Giry risked calling out. She thought she heard a moan coming from the church, but she wasn't sure. "Erik," she called again. Yes, it was definitely a moan. Hurrying through the snow, the ballet mistress wondered why she hadn't thought of it before. Of course Erik would go to the church; he wasn't stupid enough to be caught out in the storm.

The door to the church was slightly ajar, but all was dark inside. Lighting a candle in the doorway, Madame Giry ventured in. The guttering light made little impact in the gloomy darkness, and if she hadn't been looking she wouldn't have seen the dark shape slumped in the far corner.

"Erik! Is it you?" she called, making her way over to him. He gave no answer, but she knew it was him. Who else would be laying half conscious in a church at this time of night?

Setting the candle down on a chair, Madame Giry knelt beside the figure. She placed a hand on his shoulder to roll him over, and felt the congealing blood beneath her fingers before she saw it. Gently, she rolled him over onto his side.

"Aaah," he gasped in pain, an agonised look on his face. Folding her cloak and resting his head on it, she rolled him over completely. "Who…?" he whispered, his voice rasping in his throat that was in desperate need of water.

"Don't worry Erik, it is me, Madame Giry. Raoul said you were injured," she said gently.

"Ah, the _Vicomte de Chagny_," Erik muttered, opening his eyes slowly.

"He did this?" she asked although she already knew the answer.

"Who else? Bested by a mere boy."

Madame Giry sighed and patted his uninjured shoulder like she would to a child. Opening her bag, she pulled out a bandage and carefully began to bandage his shoulder wound.

"Leave that, it's the side that troubles me," Erik muttered, closing his eyes again.

"Your side?" she asked worriedly, bringing the candle down for a closer look. The left side of his shirt was sticky, and he grimaced as she moved it away from the deep jagged-edged cut. It did not come free easily, and Erik groaned as she finally eased all of the fabric away. "Hold still," she murmured as he let out a deep sigh.

**A/N: **Please leave a review if you've read! It's very disheartening when you see a story getting read but not reviewed-it makes us wonder what we're doing wrong.


	2. A Note

**A/N: Ok, it's been a while, but the second chapter is here at last. Things should be a lot quicker from now on. The good news is, we now have a Beta Reader. BleedingHeartConservative is now very kindly Betaing for us, so it should be free from any grammar errors**** and confusing sentences. Hope you enjoy it! It's a fairly short chapter I'm afraid, but the next is much longer.**

Meg Giry paced up and down the narrow corridor between the dressing rooms, pausing every few minutes to look out the window. It had been two hours since Raoul had arrived and her mother was nowhere to be found. All she could think of was that she could have gone to deal with more of the 'Phantom business,' that her mother spoke to her of, in great secrecy and revealing very little. She decided that this was the most likely explanation for her mother's disappearance, but it offered her little comfort. If that was where she had gone, Meg wished she could have accompanied her. She was curious.

"Sleep Meg." Meg looked round surprised.

"You are awake, Christine!" she said, hugging her friend.

"As are you. But you should be asleep. You know full well your mother will be fine, wherever she is." Meg smiled. Christine always knew exactly what was on her mind.

"How is Raoul?" she asked to change the subject from her mothers absence. Christine's smile faded as she thought of the swordfight. How could she have been so blind not to realize it was not her father singing to her, but was in fact the Phantom?

The blonde girl saw her face and squeezed her hand in reassurance. "You are so lucky to have a man like him," she added, "to look after you."

Christine nodded, yawning.

"I must go back to wait for him to wake. Do sleep Meg, you must be tired. It is very late."

Meg sighed as Christine eased the door shut, leaving her facing the bare wood. She stood there for a long time, then, with another deep sigh, turned and went into the dormitories, and lay down on her bed, feeling rather hopeless. She did not know when she fell asleep, but when she did, she fell into a deep slumber, not even waking when several hours later a figure slipped into the room and left a note on the dresser.

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The cold wind bit into Madame Giry's face as she helped Erik along the narrow slippery path. Either side of them, the dark, dreary buildings rose high into the night sky, blocking out all light. The snow crunched under their feet, numbing their toes.

"We are nearly there," the grey haired woman said quietly, to break the silence that had fallen between them since they had left the graveyard a while ago, for Erik had hardly been able to stand but had flatly refused any help.

"I know," he replied shortly. Madame Giry sighed and reached out to steady Erik as he staggered sideways, grimacing. He brushed her hand away, and tried once again to clear his head, to break out of the fog that had descended over him. If he collapsed here, the ballet mistress would have to seek help and he wished nothing more than to be alone. And if to be alone meant to die, then so be it. Because _she_ didn't love him. _Devil's child indeed,_ he thought furiously, shaking with both rage and weakness.

Madame Giry reached out to steady him again, and he laughed bitterly, pulling away with force he did not know he had in his feverish state. Immediately he regretted it, arrows of pain piercing his side. He let out a small gasp and fell against the wet wall of the alley, vision blurring as his eyes closed. He might have blacked out for a moment, but he couldn't be sure.

When Erik reopened his eyes, he found that he was staring into the stern face of his concerned acquaintance. He visibly flinched at her expression, looking away, past her into the gloom. It was only then that he realized that he was soaked to the skin and extremely cold. Teeth chattering inside his clamped jaw, he wondered how long he had been sitting against the wall. _Oh you imbecile,_ he growled inwardly, his animosity giving way to more sober thoughts as he struggled to stand.

For once, he allowed Madame Giry to help, for his twisted ankle would not support him much more and his muscles felt heavy and useless. A low moan of pain escaped him as he leaned against the thin woman, who supported his weight surprisingly well.

Mindlessly allowing himself to be led slowly along the path, Erik let his thoughts return to Christine, sinking once again into his deep despair. The blood seeped through the makeshift bandages around his side and shoulder, the heat burning like red hot pokers against his icy flesh, increasing in ferocity as he stumbled on, but he tried to ignore it, pushing all thoughts from his mind, simply concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other.

"Erik, we are here,"

Madame Giry spoke softly in his ear, but he did not, as she had half expected, hear her words.

They moved slowly around the outside of the opera house yard, keeping in the shadows for fear that someone would be looking, until they reached the wrought-iron gate down into the cellars. Leaving Erik, who was apparently taking no notice of his surroundings, leaning against the wall, his helper opened the gate, digging into the snow to clear its path. Finally it slid open, grating against the uncovered cobbles.

Looking pointedly at the 'opera ghost', then at the small gap, Madame Giry wondered how to get him inside. She needn't have worried. Moving slowly, a permanent grimace on his half covered face, Erik eased himself into a sitting position and slipped through the small entrance, followed closely by the ballet mistress. The drop was about a meter or so, easy enough to manage when one is uninjured, but a small issue when one isn't. Erik landed on his feet, but his legs gave way and he sank forward, throwing his arms out to break his fall, his conscious mind momentarily forgetting his injuries. The agony which possessed him as he hit the stone floor was excruciating, tearing a strangled yelp from his parched lips as the dark passage seemed to multiply in front of his eyes, the kaleidoscope twisting and changing before him. Startled by his sudden cry of pain, Madame Giry crouched beside his prone body on the dirty floor, before remembering the gate and quickly pulling it closed. In the little light that penetrated the barrier, she could see that Erik's eyes were closed.

_Blood_. Erik's eyelids flickered open a few seconds later. _Pain. _The floor was dank and foul-smelling beneath his face. A hand touched his arm and he flinched, trying to speak but no words coming out, only a babble of confused noises. _What is wrong with me? _Erik thought, trying to sit up. He leaned on his arm and his sanity left him.

Vaguely, he was aware of being pulled by a pair of hands while a voice spoke, yet he knew not the words which were thrown at him. Wild thoughts rushed at him, disorientating, and he let them overwhelm him.

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Meg Giry's eyes flew open as sunlight flooded through the window. When had she fallen asleep? What time was it now? Hurriedly pushing back the blankets, the ballet girl sat up.

She was immediately relieved as she saw the note on the table, and she bounded up to fetch it, unfolding the parchment with eager hands.

_Dearest Meg,_

_I am sorry if I worried you last night, but I am glad you had the sense to sleep. I have to go again now, more unexpected business as you may have guessed, but I shall return soon. Do not worry, all is well._

_Your loving mother._

Meg smiled, inquisitive. What was this unexpected business? Was it to do with the phantom? And lastly, why was she so secretive?


	3. Tortures

**Wow, it's been a while, hasn't it? Sorry for the long wait. The good news is that Chapter 4 is nearly ready, so hopefully that should be posted in the next few days, but only if we get 4 or more reviews for this chapter, so remember to review after reading!**

**Disclaimer: We own none of Phantom, unfortuantely.**

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…" Christine whispered into Raoul's chest, feeling the warmth of his arm around her. She smiled sadly, gazing at her sleeping love. Her fingers lightly traced the edge of the blood-stained bandage which was wrapped securely around his left arm. Slowly they began to slowly trail up past his shoulder to his neck, and finally, his pale face. She let her hand rest there, enjoying the feel of his smooth skin upon hers. A small sigh left his lips as his sea blue eyes began to flutter open. A smile began to pull at the corners of his mouth as he saw Christine staring down at him.

"Christine," he whispered, reaching up to take her hand as he noticed the anxious expression on the girl's face, "You should not have worried so."

"How is your shoulder now? How are you feeling?" she asked, disregarding Raoul's reassurance. The Vicomte slowly tried putting weight gently on the arm, but it was not too long before a grimace appeared on his face. Slumping back down he grinned playfully, in spite of the pain,

"It's certainly been better," he joked, trying to encourage Christine into relaxing from the tense state she was in, "But I think that far more damage has been inflicted on the Phantom than me," he added. However, this did not have the desired effect, as the singer's eyes grew wide with fear and worry, beginning to glaze over with tears at the mention of her former angel.

"What happened to him Raoul? I heard him telling us to go, but I didn't see he was hurt! Raoul, tell me. Please," she begged, her voice growing higher in pitch as her speech went on, her small hands now gripping the bedclothes, her knuckles white.

"I thought you were afraid of him Christine. I apologise. Come now, don't cry so, I'm certain he will be perfectly fine, if you are so worried," he replied, avoiding giving a direct answer to her question, certain that should he reveal the exact extent of his rival's injuries, it was sure to send her into a fresh set of hysterics. Holding his uninjured arm out to her, he beckoned for her to go to him, which she did. Christine sat by him, weeping quietly into his shirt until she once again fell into the land of dreams.

After a few minutes, when he was sure that she was deeply asleep, Raoul slid carefully from underneath her and stood, gingerly testing his weight on his bandaged leg. He grimaced, but he could just about walk on it. _Damn the monster! _He thought irritably, limping out of the room and shutting the door quietly behind him. Christine didn't wake, so he hobbled down the stairs to the manager's office. They would perform Don Juan, he would demand it. They would catch the monster, the ghost. The _angel _of music.

He knocked on the door, one leg held slightly off the ground to ease the pain. Now he would get his way.

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"Erik," a voice spoke in the darkness. "Erik." There was warmth in that voice; warmth and concern. Madame Giry.

She raised a cup to his lips and he swallowed somewhat painfully, a tortured look flashing across his face like a ghost, a mere shadow of the pain he was feeling. He was suffocating in it, drowning, and it wrung every last ounce of strength and determination from his tormented soul. _I am dying._

The middle-aged woman sighed, and patted Erik's shoulder soothingly. He unconsciously flinched from her touch, throwing off the blankets covering his bare chest. Leaning down to retrieve them, the ballet mistress couldn't help but notice the scarlet blood seeping through bandages to stain the blankets. She would have to change them again.

"Stay still Erik."

_Whose voice? Who is speaking to me?_ Erik struggled to regain consciousness, his thoughts clouded and sluggish. He groaned softly, eyelids flickering, feverish mind taunted by bursts of colour spiralling mockingly in front of him, ridiculing his weakness.

The colours faded to black as something cold brushed his side. The pain rose to a new level, stinging; a thousand daggers stabbing at him from all angles. Erik stiffened, the darkness seeming to pound around him in time with his racing heartbeat. Time, or the little of it that he could make out, seemed to slow into one continuous moment, seconds stretching into hours, hours into days.

And then, quite suddenly, and just when he thought he could take this agony no longer, it simply ceased to be. The icy feeling against his skin was replaced by something warm and soft. Erik let out his breath, relaxing slightly. He sank into the comfort of the blankets that he hadn't felt before, a sigh escaping him.

"Erik? Come on Erik!" the words that had once seemed so distant sounded closer, inviting him to open his eyes, to wake up. He knew he could, he must! But how? His eyelids felt so heavy; it would take all his strength just to force them open. The light of candles was jeering at him from behind the shroud of night time, calling to him, enticing him. _Erik does not give up. _He groaned, straining. He clung to Madame Giry's words of encouragement like a small child.

"Can you hear me Erik?" she asked. A weak smile played on his lips.

"Yes, I can hear you," he mumbled, "Yes."

Hesitantly he opened his eyes, squinting up at the ballet mistress perched precariously on the far end of his bed. At first he saw little except a smudged outline, the colour blurred together into grey, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the light the picture sharpened, focusing. Colours came creeping back, shade by shade from grey.

"Thank you," he whispered shakily, testing his voice. No, it wouldn't go much louder than that, but it was a start.

Madame Giry stood and walked round the bed to him, smiling, deeply relieved by the fact that he had at last woken. Her face was lined and there were bags under her ice blue eyes. The last few hours had been difficult.

"That is quite alright, Erik," she said, helping him sit up. He moaned softly, pain flaring in his side as he tried to shift into a more comfortable position. A little uncomfortable at being that close to him now he had woken, the ballet mistress retreated a few steps. He noticed, and his face coloured slightly. He looked away round the small room. The silence that fell between them was tense.

"You undressed me," he accused her sullenly without taking his gaze off of the candle in the corner. His friend blushed.

"That's not fair Erik," she rebuked him, stuttering slightly, "I had little choice."

Erik was silent for a long time, staring into the corner. Madame Giry fiddled with her sleeve, strangely nervous as she waited for his answer. Finally, he spoke.

"I suppose that is so," he mumbled, barely coherent, an air of defeat about him. She could sense his pain although she could not see his expression.

"Lie down. I will fetch you a drink," she said, and hurried out of the room. Painstakingly slowly, Erik lay down and pulled the blankets back over his chest. Breathing heavily, eyes closing, he drifted off again, off into the world of tormented dreams and half-heard noises.

Madame Giry let out a sigh as she closed the door behind her and picked her way through the lair to find him some water. When she returned, peeping around the door, he was asleep, head turned away towards the wall. Smiling, the ballet mistress found a pen and paper, and wrote him a quick note. This she left by the bed, along with water and a bowl of soup. Then, quietly, she made her way up to the surface. Rehearsals would be starting for _Don Juan Triumphant_, Erik's opera, if the Vicomte had his way, and the ballet girls would be missing her guidance.

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Raoul opened the door slowly and peeped around it. Christine was curled up tightly on the bed, still sleeping deeply, her dress crumpled where she had been tossing in some troubled dream. Turning, the Vicomte gently shut the door behind him. At the small 'click' of its shutting, the girl's eyes began to open.

Perhaps peered sounds more formal than peeped Her eyes probably just opened, since the time from when they begin to open to when they are the way open in a mere instant.

"Raoul?" she asked, half asleep. "Is that you?"

"Yes it's I. I had _matters _to discuss with the management, that is all," he limped over to Christine, the leg which had been impaled on Erik's sword still causing him considerable trouble. He sat on the wooden stool beside the bed.

Yawning, Christine sat up. She rubbed her eyes, a smile playing on her lips as she held out her hands to the young Vicomte. Raoul took them, peeling off his gloves as she drew him onto the bed beside her. His good arm slipped around her waist, drawing her closer. She giggled like a little child, leaning forwards as their lips met tenderly, then pulled away slowly.

"I love you Christine," Raoul whispered, beaming. Christine smiled shyly as they leaned forwards to kiss again. _Is this what heaven feels like? _Christine wondered, shivering in pleasure. She hoped so.

"Raoul," she murmured into the crook of his neck, " Raoul, I love you too..."

There was a polite knock on the door, then, before they could react, Madame Giry entered. She stood back patiently whilst Christine detached herself from Raoul. The singer smiled and ran to give the ballet mistress a hug, forgetting for a moment that she was no longer a child.

"Christine!" the older woman greeted her, looking past her to Raoul. "Good day Vicomte," she added. He nodded. "I must talk to Christine outside, if you mind?" She led the way and closed the dressing room door behind her.

"What is it?" Christine asked, her face paling suddenly as she remembered her angel. "Is it-?"

"Hush, no, the managers would like to know if you would play Aminta in _his _opera," Madame Giry interrupted gently. Christine paused, fear crossing her face, then nodded slowly.

"Yes...yes I will, I must," she murmured, although hesitantly. Patting her reassuringly, Meg's mother opened the door for her to go back in to see Raoul.

"No harm will come to you."

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Erik's eyes flew open as he woke, unsure of where he was. The candles had long since burned down and the room was dark and lonely, deathly quiet except for his own heavy breathing. The blankets below his body were wet with sweat and creased from his frequent tossing and turning. _Why-? _Erik thought as he sat up, but he never finished asking himself the question. The pain slashing through his side bent him double. Erik gasped for breath as tears found a crack in his defences and forced their way out through tightly shut eyes. He tried to ignore the images flashing through his mind, blurred and confused, fragments of the last two days: The swordfight, Christine, Madame Giry, _Madame Giry! Had she brought him here?_

Groaning softly, Erik sank back against the pillow. His head throbbed, although he hadn't consciously been aware of hitting it. He shivered and reached out to pull the blanket back over him, grimacing. The material felt unusually heavy, and he let his arm drop limply against the sheets, defeated. _What is wrong with me? It was only a scratch! _The Phantom tried once again to sit, his movements slower this time.

After several more attempts, each one weakening him further, Erik had to admit that he could not sit up by himself. Laying still, aching all over, he felt the darkness around him begin to heave. Eyes barely open, occasionally flickering shut, he struggled now to stay awake.

As the sound of singing began to filter down through the levels, Erik turned his thoughts to Madame Giry in an attempt to stay conscious. She was the closest he had to a friend, he realised, shivering. There had been no change in the temperature that he knew off, but he suddenly felt cold all over. Huddling into the blankets, he remembered the ballet mistress as a child, when she had rescued him from the gypsies. _The gypsies,_ he thought with rage. The memories were still ingrained in his mind, the shame, the anger. He tried not to dwell on the thought, moving on to the Opera Populaire. Madame Giry had often spoken to him then, when they had both been young. She had been a friend of sorts, the only one in a lonely life. But then she had begun to work as the ballet mistress and she hadn't had time to come and see him, not often. But she had still delivered his notes, been kind to him, saved his life! He supposed he should be thankful, but in his present state, he could find little to be thankful for.

Without him being aware of it, Erik's eyes were closing, his thoughts muddling as sleep called to him, a sleep where nightmares lingered and evil voices jeered at him, mocking him. But he had little choice. Fumbling the blankets over him, he let the darkness draw close again.


	4. Don Juan

**I'm so sorry this is later than expected! The reason-I completely forgot to post. I know, it's unacceptable, but I hop you enjoy the chapter anyway.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Phantom.**

Erik sat silently at the organ, long fingers running over the keys but not playing. He stared at the music in front of him, devoid of any desire to play. He could see no reason himself to concentrate, he played a few bars, then stopped, his shoulder aching. Erik regarded the organ with a look of loathing. The score of his masterpiece, _Don Juan Triumphant_ was still placed neatly on the top of the instrument. It was to be performed fairly soon, Erik was sure, but as he had no indication as to the exact date, for he had been held down below for a number of weeks.

A tap on the shoulder disturbed his thoughts. He jumped, then span round, eyes venomous, though they softened slightly when he saw the person in question. Madame Giry.

"When is my opera being performed? It is not long now, I should think," he said, demanding her answer without so much as a greeting.

"And a good day to you too," she chuckled, smiling. "How are you?"

"Answer my question," he replied irritably, throwing his voice so that it spoke threateningly in her ear. She watched him with a stern look on her face, unimpressed. She had seen his ventriloquism before.

"You have not so much as greeted me, and yet you demand me to answer your questions? Dear, dear, where are your manners?" Despite her light tone, he recognised the authority in her voice, and resented it.

Eyes glowing dangerously, he leaned in close to her face.

"Answer my question. I have no time for your little games."

"Don Juan Triumphant is in two night's time," the ballet mistress lied convincingly. She had promised Christine that her angel would not trouble her, and she fully intended to keep that promise, whatever the cost. Oh, but how it hurt her to betray Erik.

"Very well," he said, turning back to the organ. "You may go."

She shook her head at his figure, then turned on her heel and strode out, skirt swishing around her legs.

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Christine tentatively sat down at the window in the chapel, pleading eyes locked on Raoul's figure in the doorway. Her pale face turned upwards to look deep into his eyes as he came forwards slowly to sit by her side. Taking her soft hands in his own, he reassured her caringly.

"You said yourself he is nothing but a man," he murmured, stroking her arm tenderly. She watched him sadly, not really hearing his words.

"Am I to risk my life to win the chance to live?" she wondered, eyes travelling from Raoul along the chapel wall to the open door. This was the place where she had first met her Angel of Music, all those years ago. She remembered the little girl she had been, lost and lonely. Then, when it had seemed there was no end to the blackness which had become her life, that voice had spoken to her, taught her, given her back her very soul. How could she turn against him now, after all he had done for her? But then, things were not the same as they had been, were they? How could the man who had guided her through her life and the phantom who terrorised the residents of the opera house be the same person? She grew angry at the thought of the brutal murder of the stagehand Joseph Buquet. For what reason had he been denied the right to live? So many unanswered questions…

Raoul stiffened, squeezing her hand gently, trying to hush her. He took a long slow breath to calm himself. He wanted to go, to hunt the monster down, to kill him! But he couldn't. For Christine's sake… For Christine's sake. She needed him to be with her.

He leaned forward and embraced her tightly as tears began to spill down her confused face. She clung to him, head on his shoulder, silent for several long moments.

"You should change," he whispered at last, standing and leading her from the chapel where she had once sat crying and mourning her father, where once her angel had sung to her. Some angel he had become. More a demon, he thought angrily.

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Three and a half hours later, the curtain rose on the final act and the opera continued. Sitting in his private box with two armed policemen for company, Raoul could not help but admire Christine's stunning beauty as she once again swept across the stage.

"My Lotte, my little songbird," he murmured to himself, allowing himself to relax a little. The monster had not yet arrived, or if he had he was biding his time, for the opera was nearly finished and nothing disastrous had happened. And what a strange opera it was, full of passion and emotion, and the music! The Vicomte could not help but wonder what terrible sadness must have inspired the heart-wrenching notes he heard. He cut off his thoughts abruptly, refusing to feel sorry for the man, the thing.

Christine glanced up at the box and the look on her face sent shivers up the Vicomte's spine. She was terrified. He gave her an imperceptible nod, smiling encouragement and her voice rose to a new level.

"_Past the point of no return, the final threshold, the bridge is crossed so stand and watch it burn…_" Raoul shuddered. In under an hour's time they truly would be past the point of no return. They would be leaving the opera house behind, starting anew. And they would be married. So long as there were no interferences.

On stage, Christine too was wondering. Wondering where her angel was, why he had not appeared? The lack of appearance on the phantom's part was rather unnevering. Why, he could have been setting up a trap below the stage at that very moment! The singer's eyes searched the boxes. Box five was empty as far as she could see, so her eyes scanned the other boxes for Raoul as she climbed the steps up to the balcony opposite Piangi, needing the Vicomte's reassurance. She caught his eye just for a moment, a haunted expression on her face as she tried to relax, throwing everything into the last song.

"_We've passed the point of no return…_" she could almost hear her angel singing Piangi's part in her head. It was disconcerting, and her voice trembled slightly as she warbled the last note, closing her eyes as she finally let her voice soar. For Raoul, for all he had risked for her_. _When she opened her eyes she could feel his loving gaze on her, warming her to the very core.

The crowd erupted into a standing ovation, which lasted several minutes. Christine could see Raoul standing in the box, smiling broadly as he led the clapping, and she too smiled.

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Erik sat at the organ as the echoes of 'Point of No Return' died away under his fingers. After gaining a surprising urge to play, he had ignored the pain his various injuries had been causing. He sighed, rubbing his shoulder. Then, tossing the score to the ground, he started on another composition. One which he intended to play for Christine. A song full of love and beauty. He didn't hear the music above over the noise of his own passionate composing.


	5. Enemies?

**A/N: So sorry we've been away for so long. Summer's been mad for us both and we haven't had much time to write. Anyway, the good news is chapter 6 is also about half done**. **Hopefully it will be up in the next week or two.**

**News: Unfortuantely, our old beta reader can no longer beta for us, due to personal reasons. However, we have found a new beta reader. Introducing...*Insert drum roll here*... Truckingal! A big thanks to her, if she happens to be reading this.**

**And while this is a bit off topic, if you're passing by London at all, make sure you book to see Phantom! Ramin Karimloo, the current Phantom, is amazing in the role (I won't go into too much detail here). He's not going to be in it that much longer though, so take the chance while you still can.**

"You were wrong! It failed. All this," Andre wildly flung one hand out to encompass all of the guards, who were gathered around a buffet table, "All this for nothing!"

"Andre, please don't worry! Think of the success," Monsieur Firmin reasurred him, placing an agitated hand on his friend's shoulder whilst Raoul stood awkwardly to one side, an arm around Christine, protecting her from the verbal firing line. She stared at the men around her with a look of confusion. The group stood in the large, elegant room where the post-show parties and celebrations took place. Members of the chorus were conversing and smiling merrily to one another, as they thought of the shocked, yet enthusiastic applause they had received for their efforts that performance.

"I apologise, gentlemen. But I am afraid must leave tonight," the Vicomte cut in.

"But Monsieur, what is the reason for this urgent departure? Surely you could stay and enjoy our success for a while, at least," Firmin caught the arm of the Vicomte and began attempting to drag him toward the table of drinks, a large smile on his face.

"I thank you for the kind offer, but I am afraid I must decline, gentlemen," Raoul suspected that the manger had already paid an early visit to the drinks table and did not wish to get involved, if they were to leave at all that night. When neither of them seemed to take this in, he added, "Personal reasons, as I hope you'll understand. I bid you farewell, for now," he turned, gently leading Christine out of the room. Among the festivities, no one seemed to notice that the singer was also leaving with him.

Raoul's carriage was parked outside in the stable yard, the stunning, dark horses fidgeting in the cold air.

"Come Christine." The Vicomte led Christine towards it, helping her up into the velvet seat before leaping up elegantly himself. The driver pulled away with a swish of the whip, horses' hooves clattering on the damp cobbles as they pulled away from the Opera house, from the past. They were, like pilgrims, out to seek a future, away from the darkness that haunted them. They were breaking free. Or so they thought.

Christine looked slowly out of the window into the black from which she was hiding, the darkness she knew Raoul was yearning to fight.

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Erik made his way hurriedly through the gloomy passages to the surface, pausing now and then to steady his breathing and dull the pain that still plagued him. The wounds were healing slowly, but he felt ready to go above, despite the knowledge that he would not be able to protect himself to the best of his abilities if such an occasion arose.

Being the opera ghost had certain privileges, but there were also responsibilities. For example, to ensure that rehearsals were running smoothly and that there were no conceited divas putting unnecessary strain on the production. This meant attending no matter how ill or injured you were.

As he made his way along the corridors towards the stage, the masked man noticed there was something wrong hanging in the air, but he could not figure out what the problem could have been. Attempting to dispatch his feelings of unease, he began to listen for sounds of the last dress rehearsal before the grand opening. By now, there would usually be sounds of the chorus booming, Carlotta shrieking and Christine singing sweetly like the angel she was. But tonight was different. That was when he realised what was troubling him. It was quiet on the stage below. Far too quiet for his liking.

Stepping into the area above stage where the backdrops and scenery were operated, he gazed down. There was no one. A small sound from the seating area caught his ear. Adjusting his position to see in front of the closed stage curtains, Erik peered out. There were a few ladies and gentlemen making their way out of the theatre, dressed up in what was clearly their best evening wear, speaking intensely to one another. He glanced again at the stage, noticing that the scenery from the final act of his opera was laid out on the floor.

A numbness spreading over him, he began to make his way as fast as he could back to the door through which he had come, grateful that he had not climbed out over the rafters. He was not certain that he would have made it back over them safely in his new found state of shock and rage. Still, he had to make sure that his assumption was not wrong…

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Slipping around the side of the building, the posters caught his eye, the date in particular. As he stepped toward them through the gloom of the shadows, he felt his breath catch in his throat. The phantom stared in silence at the posters. _No. No! She was gone!_

He swept into action, throwing caution to the wind as he tore back through the passages to the vaults where he kept his black stallion, Caesar, mind consumed with panic and fury. How could he not have realised? How had he let her go? What now? Without having to ask himself he knew the answer, throwing himself onto his mount's back with no regard for pain or danger. There was simply adrenalin and a pounding heart.

For a second time that night the thunder of hoof beats rang out in the yard. For the second time a black horse snorted, throwing up its proud head as it jogged sideways in nervous anticipation.

Caesar quivered beneath him as the phantom turned his head to the road. Barely knowing what he did, his judgement clouded by shock and desperation, Erik dug his heels hard into the beast's sides, and the horse bounded forward in surprise, unused to this harsh treatment from the man who was usually so gentle to him. Erik's sword was flapping at his side although he never recalled strapping it on, and it thumped against his leg in rhythm with the horse's stride as he flatted himself onto his mount's neck, urging the creature on with all his strength. He didn't know where he was going, but somehow he knew he would find her there. _She left me! I have been betrayed! _He didn't know what he would do when he found them. A multitude of thoughts whirled round in his mind as he pushed himself through the boundaries of his dubious strength, despite his body's screaming protests.

The wind rushing past his ears seemed to scream her name as he rode down the road he knew they would take, a road he knew well if only he would stop and think. "Christine!" the word taunted him and he growled.

"Christine!" his cry echoed through the night. Caesar turned down a lane as the houses dropped away, leaving them in the countryside. "Christine!" he yelled one last time, cloak spreading out behind him, and the horse put on an extra spurt. His black mane tossed in the wind of his own speed, sweat beginning to lay thick on his dark neck as he tried his hardest for his friend. Erik no longer had to push, although he tried for a while, until exhaustion took hold and he clung on, catching his breath as tremors of pain ran through his side again. He was not healed. He should have known that. But he was insane, insane with jealousy and sorrow and anger. It was no time to rest.

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Three men lay in wait on the shadows of the northern road, one silently nervous and the other two silently confident as Raoul and Christine were pulled onwards through the Paris night. The couple hadn't spoken since their departure from the Opera Populaire, each as wrapped in their own thoughts as they were wrapped in each other's arms. Outside the warmth of the carriage, the driver cantered the horses past several side roads that led out from Paris. He was blissfully unaware that they were not alone on the seemingly empty road. It was not until the thunder of hooves from a single, black horse on the road behind them drew his attention and made him realise that they were being pursued, and, fixated on that fact, he failed to notice the men black-clad man on the road in front until the horses slowed.

"May I help you Monsieur?" he asked politely. He received no reply.

Hearing a cry of alarm, Raoul looked out of the window as the carriage jolted to a halt in time to see the driver being hit hard over the head by a man dressed in black, knocking him clean out. As he slumped forward the man drew his sword, and two others joined him.

The Vicomte threw the door open, ribbing out his own sword.

"Christine! Stay there!"

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The yells that cut through the otherwise silent night echoed in Erik's brain as he drove Caesar towards the three men who had beaten him to the ambush. He could see Christine's face, pale in the moonlight, as the clash of swords filled the darkness,. Flashes of deadly metal, darted back and forward like quicksilver. Erik dismounted and suddenly it was two against three in a battle to protect Christine, for it was now clear that she was what the three men intended to take for their own, in more than one way.

Erik parried one man, driving him backwards with well timed slashes and cuts. He was breathing hard, tired from the furious pursuit, but he was skilled, and left the inferior man no chances. The man leapt backwards then forwards again, sword high, then low, but he found nothing solid at which to strike, until once again Erik's sword came like a viper to bite.

The bandit tried desperately to fight back, confident no longer, and as the Phantom knocked his sword from his hand, he died screaming. Spinning round, Erik saw Raoul fighting the other two men, one man in front and one behind his back.

The long-haired man was fighting just as well as he had that fateful day in the cemetery, his blade clanging off the other man's as he swept it back and forth, forwards and back, always moving, always parrying. It was clear simply watching him that he had been trained well. The man had exceptional talent, Erik was loath to note. The cold air was filled with the noise of battle, the breathing, the feet scuffing wildly on the stones, the hiss of steel, the shouts of rage and pain.

Through all of this, hearing only her singing resounding in his head, Erik made a move to get to Christine. His shoulder ached from the force of his own blows, his side constantly paining him, and, slowed by this, he failed to reach Christine before she leapt from the carriage, bending to quickly clench a rock in her shaking hands. The man behind Raoul fell as the singer hit him hard round the head with the makeshift weapon, a surprised yet satisfied smile on her lips, and Erik rushed to protect her. However, the sudden arrival of her former angel sent her back into the carriage with a squeal before words could even be spoken.

With a final blow at Raoul, the fight was over as suddenly as it had started; the last man scurried for the fields, sword left where he had dropped it in fright as he realised he was now alone.

For several moments there was silence as no one moved. Then Christine's voice broke the moment.

"Raoul!" she cried, running from the carriage to her lover who was on his knees, winded. The two of them together looked up at Erik.

The Phantom stood with his sword pointed towards Raoul, chest heaving, the uncovered side of his face bitter in all its savage anger.


	6. Insult to Injury

**A/N: Yes, another chapter already. We felt bad for leaving it so long, so here's another chapter. It's possibly the longest yet. Not much to really say, so enjoy!**

Erik glared down at his rival through narrowed eyes, enjoying the look of fear on the man's face. Breathing hard from the fight, he began to again notice the pain in his side, stabbing him like a hot knife. It slowly spread, burning into his body. He staggered in agony to the side of the black coach, leaning heavily against it, forcing himself to remain conscious. He was now not the imposing Phantom they feared; just a mere man in pain.

Raoul rose slowly to his feet, eyes on the gasping man who leaned against his coach, holding his side as a look of agony spread across his face. Standing beside him, Christine put a hand on Raoul's arm, and he pulled her into a tired embrace, still glaring at his enemy.

"Don't kill him Raoul," Christine spoke up at last, breaking the still that wasn't quite silence but contained heavy breathing and the moan of the wind around the carriage. "He saved our lives."

The Vicomte didn't reply, glaring in tense silence at the man he had several times sworn to kill. The man he wanted to kill. The man he should kill. For a long time he did nothing. Then he reluctantly dropped his sword into its scabbard. Erik did the same, movements pained and slow. A gasp caught in his throat as another blade of pain slashed into him.

"Thank you," Christine whispered under her breath, relieved. Then, as Raoul moved towards the carriage, a new thought struck her. "We can't just leave him here! He's injured!" Raoul turned back to her and held out his hand, attempting to ignore the comment. She came to him, looking at him anxiously. "Please Raoul?" she was annoyed at the long pause that came before his answer, and equally surprised at the answer he gave.

"Very well." With those two words the girl noticed that neither man had enough energy to fight, and although this thought was comforting as it almost guaranteed there would be no physical conflict between the two, it also worried her. After all, did that mean she had to make the all decisions for them?

Again, there was silence. Christine looked from Raoul, to Erik, then back to Raoul, who still said nothing.

"He can go in the back?" she asked tentatively. The Vicomte nodded tiredly. Christine gazed at the man by the carriage, who seemed to have not heard the exchange. "Excuse me, monsieur?" she called over to him, not entirely sure what the correct way to address the man would be. He looked up after a moments pause. "You can have a ride, if you wish."

Erik regarded her with a look of suspicion. A ride with her would be wonderful, yes, but with the Vicomte also present it did not seem so appealing. No, it would be best for everyone, himself included, if he travelled alone. After all, he could use the situation to his advantage, tricking the pair of them that he was in fact returning back to the opera house then follow them to wherever it was they were headed. Then in the dead of night he could capture Christine for himself. Pleased with his plan, Erik began to attempt to limp back to Caesar. However, he was quite unprepared for the degree of pain which followed, forcing him down to the ground, gasping. Christine, still rather wary of the fallen man, quietly asked the driver if he would be able to assist her 'friend' in climbing aboard the coach, for it seemed that at that moment he was the only person who would have the physical strength to lift anything as heavy as a man. Quite happy to oblige, the stout man waddled over to the form on the ground and attempted to haul him to his feet. What the poor man was not expecting, however, was the heavy blow to his eye he received. Staggering back and rubbing the afflicted area, he glared at the masked man who was now quite still again.

"I think I may be in need of some help." he stated the obvious. The Vicomte was immediately beside him, ready to provide assistance. Although weakened, he certainly wished to limit the amount of damage done by the man he had sworn as his enemy. For a few seconds the men spoke in whispers to each other, attempting to decide what to do. After these moments deliberation, they parted. The driver provided a short countdown for them both before they lunged.

The scene which followed was quite a sight to behold. The Vicomte darted for the masked man's arms, pinning them to his sides, while the driver rather inelegantly pulled him to his feet, lest they do any damage to the younger man. From there it was an onward struggle to the door or the carriage. Christine looked on with what would have been amusement, had the situation not been quite so serious. This continued for a number of minutes. Since she was standing, doing nothing, she found herself getting rather cold. Shivering, the girl hopped neatly into the other side of the carriage. The effect of her entry was miraculous. Almost instantly, the struggle ended as Erik reacted to Christine's very presence, making it a rather simple job to get the phantom up the steps and seated. Raoul sat down afterwards, wary eyes fixed on the revealed side of the Phantom's face. Erik stared back with utter loathing, but even as he did so, his eyes began to flutter closed. Although he fought it for several long moments, his head dropped against the back of the seat and he slept, exhausted.

"Are you able to drive us to the mansion Monsieur?" Christine asked the driver, who was dusting himself down after the ordeal.

"Certainly Mademoiselle," the driver straightened and walked a little unsteadily over to the carriage. The girl thanked him and perched back down beside Raoul. Erik was asleep opposite them, face turned away.

As the horses once again pulled away, Christine found herself watching his sleeping form with intrigue. He seemed a lot smaller curled up on the seat, less intimidating, and Christine decided he look rather childlike, curled up in a protective ball.

With an arm around Raoul, who was also sleeping now, hair tangled across his face, Christine was free to study the man in front of her. She found herself wondering what his name was, why he was here. But she doubted she'd ever find the answers. So, as the carriage rattled on through the night, she closed her eyes and the joined her two companions in sleep. No one noticed the black horse following loyally behind them.

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Meg Giry flopped into bed, yawning as she rubbed a hand across her eyes. The celebrations still continued on the lower levels, but her mother had sent her to bed along with the other ballet girls before they got up to mischief. It was a shame, Meg thought; she would have liked to have danced with at least _one _man before she left. However, her mother had been firm, so there she was, lying under the blankets and sulking. Although, on second thoughts, she was rather tired. The performance had been long and the partying wild, but neither Christine nor the Vicomte had been anywhere to be found, and the young girl had missed her friend's company.

"I wonder where she went..." she whispered into the night.

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Christine woke with a start as the carriage slowed to a halt. Eyes flying open, she panicked for a moment, until she saw that they were in the grounds of a huge chateau. She studied the building which she presumed would be their future home. The first thing she noticed was the elegant white stone from which it was carved. Evidently it was an extremely well built structure; the smoothness of the stone was matched only by the stunning coloured windows which were inserted into the sides of the building at regular intervals. The lawn which surrounded the house was equally well-kept. The grass was cut short and neat, without a weed in sight. The only things which broke the willow green flow were the winding narrow drive, which they had come up and an impressive marble fountain. A large horse statue stood in the centre of it, water gushing from its mouth. The singer smiled and turned on the seat to face the Vicomte. Her movements disturbed him, and he groaned softly as he opened his eyes.

"We're home, Christine?" Raoul mumbled sleepily as he rubbed a hand across his eyes, half a question, half a statement. He shook his head to get the hair off of his forehead, then, more alert, he climbed to his feet and held the door open for his lover. "We shall have somebody drive _him _back to where he belongs," he added looking back at Erik as the he followed Christine out of the expensive carriage, feet crunching lightly on the gravel path.

It was cold, and Raoul placed an arm around Christine, who stood shivering in her thin dress and cloak. She huddled against him as they made their way over to the driver.

"Jean-Claude, change the horses then take this man here back to the Opera Populaire," Raoul ordered, yawning.

"Let someone else drive him Raoul?" Christine asked nervously, unsure of his reaction, "The poor man could do with a rest!" Raoul sighed and nodded in acceptance.

"All right, get someone else to drive him back. But for God's sake tell them he's dangerous!"

Jean-Claude hurried the horses away towards the stables without a word.

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The muffled clatter of the carriage wheels against cobbles drifted through Erik's hazy mind as he woke, the darkness around him lifting with his eyelids to reveal the luscious interior of the de Chagny coach. He sat up straighter, puzzled. What was he doing here? Where was Christine? Cursing himself in undertones, the Phantom hauled himself upright and peered out of the window. Paris.

"You fool!" he muttered indignantly as the façade of the Opera Populaire loomed dark in his vision, "You imbecile, you have lost her!" He raged inwardly without having the energy to throw something. And, for that matter, there was nothing he could throw.

The opera ghost was startled from his silent resentment by a young man hesitantly opening the door. Shivering at the sudden rush of cold air, Erik shuffled towards it on the seat, perhaps for once in his life admitting his imminent defeat. Why, just because one lost a battle it didn't mean one lost the war. There was still time. _Time!? What use have I for waiting? I've been waiting my whole life. _A surge of anger overruled his more sane thoughts, and he vented it by pushing the driver out of the way as he climbed down.

Erik was immediately hit by another wave of agony, but he was better prepared this time and kept his feet, drawing his sword to use as a crutch. With its' assistance, he was able to stagger, albeit rather haltingly, around the side of the edifice to the gate, only looking back once to see the horses pull of into the night. He was home. _Damnit! _

Trying to think of the most efficient way to return below, remembering the other time he had made that painful journey; he was surprised when he felt a warm breath upon his neck and a soft whinny in his ear. Turning slowly, a small smile played on his lips as he saw Caesar standing in the blackness. Putting out a hand, Erik gently stroked the creature's nose. It responded by lifting its head and gently nibbling his ear and shoulder, attempting to groom him in return. Moving round the side of the animal, the man ran his hands over the horse's neck, sliding them around it and laying his head on its mane, smelling the sweet scent of the unique aroma of that every horse has. Both stood there for some time, simply enjoying the company that the other gave to them.

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Madame Giry watched with keen eyes as Piangi stumbled through the dancers in Carlotta's wake, wine glass held aloft, the liquid slopping from side to side and spilling down his arm. The diva marched onward through the crowds to the spot where the managers were standing. Or rather, attempting to stand. They seemed completely oblivious to their surroundings, making loud jokes to anyone who would listen and staggering forward and back, causing a small disturbance wherever they went.

"Ah ha! There you are!" came the shriek of Carlotta as she pushed a small man with a moustache aside. The woman stormed up to the managers, hands on her hips and a scowl on her face.

"My beautiful diva, there _you_ are," smiled Firman, seemingly unaware of his actress' foul mood.

"I will not be here much longer if this is how I am treated!"

"My darling, what is wrong?" piped up Andre, joining the conversation.

"What is wrong, what is wrong?" she flung her hands up in the air in an exasperated gesture, "I will tell you what is wrong. This girl, _Christine Daae,_" she emphasised the name with disgust, "At tonight's performance, who did they clap for? Christine Daae! Who was given the leading role? Christine Daae! And you two, you do not care either. 'Ah my wonderful Christine, our lovely diva.' Think of me! All I do for this company and no one shows any concern," she finished her rant and burst into a fit of loud dramatic sobbing. Andre and Firman looked at each other anxiously, for the loud noises Carlotta was making were attracting quite a crowd. Firman, once again, was the first to speak,

"But my dear, we do care. You know that, of course you do," his eyes brightened with the spark of a new idea, "But if you wish, as a personal favour, we shall grant you a glorious two week all expenses paid holiday." A small yelp came from the direction of Monsieur Reyer as he waved his arms from the group of people, desperate to attract the managers' attention.

"You are too kind," smiled the woman, who was now looking rather pleased with herself. Curtsying, she began to back away, dragging Piangi along beside her, who seemed to have not taken in the last five minutes, "I shall begin now," she announced, striding out of one of the large, oak doors. A small moan came from Monsieur Reyer as he collapsed into the arms of a waiting stagehand.


	7. A Small Error of Judgement

**A/N: Here we are, another chapter. Nothing really to say apart from this one, but can we try to have five reviews at least for this chapter, please? And a big thank-you to those of you who already review each chapter, you know who you are.**

Monsieur Firmin opened his eyes slowly, and found himself looking at the all too familiar beige carpet that graced his bedroom. He gave a small start and attempted to sit, cradling his throbbing head in his hands as he tried in vain to recall the events of the night before. He could not, so, with the ticking of the antique clock reverberating a little too loud in his ears, the manager hauled himself upright, one hand on the mahogany table and the other on the side of the bed as he found his balance.

Glaring at the clock, he was shocked to notice the hour. Eleven o' clock. Not quite believing how late it was and quite certain that his clock had some dreadful fault in it, the manager glanced out of the window, only to see the sun shining almost directly above the city.

The man let out a small groan and plodded into the kitchen to get a cup of water. He downed it in one go, massaging his temples as he sank down in a chair. It creaked and for a moment he was sure it would collapse, but thankfully it stayed standing.

"There are-matters to attend to- at work," the man muttered to his reflection in the slightly cracked mirror that hung on the wall, "I-must leave." He stood and stumbled back to his room to change.

Appearing ten minutes later in his normal attire, his waistcoat buttoned unevenly and his tie half tied, the manager hailed a carriage and set off for the Opera Populaire, where all was strangely silent...

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The Paris streets were crowded as a certain short, grey haired man trudged towards the opera house. He moved slowly, rubbing his head now and then as if in pain. The bright morning sun glinting off the drying cobbles only added to the dull ache in the head of none other than Gilles Andre, the other half of the management at the Opera Populaire.

Making his way up the steps to the foyer, Andre surveyed the posters with pride. Last night had been a great success! It was, he decided, a pity that he remembered little of the celebrations. Still, that could be remedied, could it not? There was always someone who remembered every detail of the night and wished to discuss it at great length with anyone who would listen for long enough.

Inside, the opera house was very quiet; no diva was throwing tantrums on stage, no music played and no one was shouting. How very strange! The manager trudged up through the corridor to the stage and popped his head around the door.

"Ah! Maestro!" he exclaimed as he saw the thin old man pacing anxiously in the orchestra pit, "Where is our diva?"

Monsieur Reyer simply let out a small "Oh!" of despair and resumed his pacing.

"Monsieur Firmin said she could take the next two weeks off Monsieur, last night. You do remember?" he questioned, gazing seriously at the shocked man.

It was Andre's turn to be appalled. "You fool Firmin, you fool!" Andre rested his head in his palm, sighing. This was not going to be a good day.

"What did I do?" Monsieur Firmin wondered, as he entered the building through the same door which his business partner had only a few minutes before, catching only the last few words of the conversation. Andre turned on him.

"You gave La Carlotta two weeks holiday! How are we supposed to perform when we have no diva?"

"Ah," he replied simply. The manager looked rather speechless, his brow furrowed as he struggled to think of an adequate response, "I feel as I though I may have made a small error of judgement."

"Small? This is an outrage! An opera house with no opera!" piped up Reyer, his hands flailing madly as he became more and more frustrated with his bosses, before he collapsed into a nearby chair.

Not a word was spoken as the three men looked around the room, clueless as to what they were supposed to do in the current situation. An opera couldn't take place without the lead roles and, as there was no Carlotta or Piangi, there could be no opera. This made it rather pointless rehearsing any other scenes with the rest of the cast.

"Ahem," Andre coughed, drawing attention to himself, "I have a proposal. Could we maybe announce to the rest of the cast that this was a planned affair, after the triumph of last night's opera? It was such a success I am sure they would believe it…"

"What a splendid idea!" cheered the other manager, smiling happily, "We shall alert them all at once," he stood hastily and strode out of the room, ignoring the other two men as they tried in vain to call him back.

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The ballet mistress carefully picked her way down to the cellars, thoughts whirling with the anticipation of the confrontation which was bound to follow her nervous descent into the catacombs. After Don Juan Triumphant she had taken the path she now took, ever downwards into despair, but the house on the lake had lain empty before her eyes. So now she was here again, battling with herself as she paused inside the hidden passage, leaning gingerly on the wall before moving lightly on across the rough stone.

A torch was lit further along the corridor, stuck into a hole in the wall. It cast an eerie glow across the worn brickwork, stories playing out in shadows on the damp walls. The air was moister here, and the walkway was narrower, so that now, one could only just walk without touching the rotting panelling that signified the lack of use of the tunnel. No stage hand had walked here, no diva had wandered this far. This was part of the opera that had never (and would never) be seen by the public; never would they encroach on the hidden wonders, the architecture, the paintings, the statues. All these treasures belonged to Erik, as sure as he belonged to them, but none of them, not even one, could buy him what he wanted. No, some things riches couldn't buy.

Madame Giry traipsed along these secluded tunnels, each footstep bringing her closer to the lake as she debated what she should say. He would be angry, of that there was no doubt.

"What to do? What to say?" she murmured to herself, too intent upon her predicament, if it could be called such, to hear the padding of feet behind her, the swish of a skirt as it brushed against a stray stone. These noises went unheard as the ballet mistress took a last turn and entered the great vaults at last.

Almost as if on cue, the Persian music box began to play its hollow melody from its position on a nearby chair, the cymbals knocking against each other with a dull ringing sound. It was a song Madame Giry knew well; she could almost imagine the tapping of feet and a hundred voices singing out in chorus. But no, all was silent as the soft tune faded away. It was almost soothing, the last echoes mingling with the water lapping on the landing stage where the boat was still moored.

The portcullis was up and water dripped from the rusty iron where tangled weed wound its way around the spikes, snaking upwards as if striving to see the light of day. No light would be seen here though, this was a place of darkness, of hopes that might have been but could never be realised. The hopes of a man who now came striding from the bedroom, clothes muddied and rumpled but mask firmly in place, although no mask could cover his apparent rage.

His eyes were burning with hatred, anger, betrayal. The ballet mistress had seen this look before, but never before had it been directed so intently at her.

"Erik, please let me explain. Let me assure you there was a very good reason for…" she swallowed, attempting to find the right words to say what she needed to, "for what I did to you."

"I am sure of it," a bitter smile was twisted onto the phantom's face as he made his way toward the trembling woman below. The ballet mistress took a discrete step backwards, rather too aware of the water behind her.

"Erik..." she protested, trying to sound confident as she pulled herself up to her full height.

"Madame," the taller man interrupted with mock courtesy.

"Erik!" Madame Giry's voice rose and Erik's eyes seemed to darken with each step he took, daggers flying, challenging her. But the ballet mistress had never been one to be daunted by challenge and, her logical mind reasoned, he had never physically hurt her before, so why would he now? Albeit something such as this had never happened before, but forcing herself to face her fear she stepped closer to the phantom, who had by then drawn himself up to his full height in an attempt to seem even more intimidating. She waggled an agitated finger at him and spoke rather crossly, "Listen to me this instant, Erik! You may or may not be aware of this, but long before you even came close to even thinking about the performance of that opera, I made a _promise_ to Miss Daae that there would be no trouble during her performance. It is quite obvious to me that had you attended then there _would_ have been trouble. Had you even considered this as a possibility?"

Erik glared down at her.

"Promises," he muttered rather disgustedly, "Since when have promises been kept in this, this _place_!" A flicker of anguish showed on his face but he suppressed it with his anger, turning to return to whichever room or passage he had come from and get away from the woman as quickly as possible.

Madame Giry grabbed his arm before he could disappear, and the man spun back round to face her. Satisfied that she had regained the phantom's attention, his rather angered acquaintance continued her ranting.

"I try to keep my promises. I'm sure you know that by now. I care for the girl, I think of her as a daughter," she held up her hand to stop him interrupting, "Yes, I know you care for her, but I did as she wished…"

The Phantom cut her off, his voice rising, "What about this hideous beast? I thought you had said you would care for this!"

"You are being unreasonable!" The flustered voice of the middle aged woman barely reached Erik's ears as he stalked away to the organ.

He was halfway there before a movement in the shadows caught his eye.

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Meg's heart froze as she saw icy eyes turn in her direction. She held her breath as the man stared directly at her, his fierce gaze pinning her to the spot. Behind him, her mother watched them with a slightly quizzical look. At least _she_ hadn't seen her daughter hiding like a thief in the darkness by the passage. Meg prayed that the man would keep walking and ignore her, so that she could slip back up the tunnel without her mother finding out. But today, it seemed, she had no such luck.

"We have a visitor, it seems," the Phantom span round with a swish of his cloak, "I presume she is here to see you, not me!" The man's voice rang out loud over the lake, echoing off the stone walls, a thousand replies to a lonely man. "It appears your daughter has followed in your footsteps, quite literally…"

Madame Giry's head snapped up at his words and turned to face her child.

"Meg Giry, come out here this instant!" she yelled, following Erik's gaze, her bad mood only adding to her furious reaction.

Meg took a slow step forward into the light, looking sheepishly up at her mother, her ballet shoes soundless as she tiptoed across the rough stone.

"I was…," she started nervously, before having her mother cut her off before she even had a chance to explain herself.

"Come here now. We are going back up. You are not to speak of what you heard or saw here. Erik, think about what I have said," with that, Madame Giry towed her daughter firmly by the arm into the passage, leaving Erik staring after them.

As Meg looked back, she caught his eye and he seemed to soften slightly, looking at her sadly as if apologising. He'd just found out what it was like to be on the receiving end of one of her mother's rants.

Sighing, he threw himself down on the organ bench, grimaced at the sudden movement, and began to lose himself in his music.


	8. A Sea of Reason

**Authors Note: Yes, it's been a very long time between posts but no, this story is not abandoned. We can't say how often updates will be, but we will try not to have any more breaks this long. Hopefully there are still people interested in reading anyway.**

**On another note, we need a new Beta reader, preferably someone who has read the whole of the story so far and will be prepared to take the time to offer constructive criticism. If you're interested, please send us a message. **

The two women walked through winding passageways out of the cellars in a cold silence, Meg with her head bowed solemnly, her mother staring straight ahead. Neither wished to speak, the former afraid of the reaction of her elder if she did, the latter not entirely sure if she would be able to control her fury should she be forced to speak.

Both were relieved when the passage began to twist steeply upwards away from the lake, a warm light greeting them as they marched onwards, Madame Giry's hand firmly fixed around her daughter's. Sub-consciously they found themselves making for the stage, the routine of many long years, rather than their conscious mind, commanding their feet.

It came as a surprise then, when they found the backstage area completely deserted, except for one or two stage hands that appeared to be packing away scenery and costumes. Madame Giry decided to make use of the privacy to give the worried ballet girl a stern lecture.

"I have told you many times not to go below, Meg. Why do you ignore my orders and disappoint me so? Do you not think my words were for your benefit?"

"No mother, please. Do not think I was trying to dishonour you, really! I simply saw you disappearing and became curious. I am sorry, I allowed myself to get the better of me." The younger girl could do nothing but stare dejectedly at her feet, clearly ashamed at her actions.

"An acceptable explanation," the older woman's eyes still held the same level of sternness, "but please do not disobey me again, Meg, for you will not get away so lightly."

Before Meg could speak again, the pair were distracted by the low humming of voices coming from the front of the stage. Knotting her eyebrows, Madame Giry peered around the scenery to see a crowd beginning to gather at the orchestra pit. There was an excited chatter passing between everyone there, from the cleaners to the lead singers. The managers stood on a small table, holding their arms up in attempt to calm their unruly staff.

Taking a stiff hold on her daughter's wrist and with a look of deep suspicion on her face, she strode over to join them. Parting the crowd with her cane, she quickly found her way to the front of the ever growing ensemble to find the two men waiting to speak, stern looks upon their faces while their arms had lowered and their fingers intertwined and fiddled anxiously behind their backs. Gradually, an expectant silence passed across the hall and Monsieur Firmin began to speak,

"My good employees, owing to the success of last night's wonderful opera, it has been the decision of the management to grant every member of the company a two week period of free time. During this time, it is advisable that you stay with relatives as, for obvious reasons, the kitchen staff will not be on duty. However, there is a bed available here for all those who require it. That will be all. If there are any questions, please direct them to Monsieur Andre. Thank-you." he hastily removed himself from where he was standing, allowing an unsuspecting Monsieur Andre to be assaulted by confused members of the opera house. It was all the man could do to remain standing amongst the tidal wave of people which surrounded him.

One person, however, remained motionless. Madame Giry stood coldly, gravely surveying the chaos around her. Many of the singers cheered wildly, the maids threw down their mops and the young members of the ballet corps danced and span. The ballet mistress took all of this in silently and glided onto the stage without a word, before bringing her cane down sharply on the hollow surface. A loud echo surrounded the auditorium and the ballerinas hurriedly gathered round their teacher in respectful silence.

Meg ran to join them, her cheeks still coloured with shame as her mother addressed the group of them,

"Contrary to the seemingly popular opinion, and despite the fact that you are to have a break, however well earned, I fully expect all of you to continue to practice in your absence from my guidance." sweeping her cane round to include all of the girls, Madame Giry scrutinised each one of them in turn, silently amused as each girl shuffled her feet and sighed dejectedly. What funny creatures they were, to think that they would be able to uphold the high standards she always insisted upon, if they did not practice for a fortnight, "Yes girls," she continued, "I shall be putting every one of you through a vigorous test when we return. Do not disappoint me. Now," her tone softened, "all of you, please go and enjoy your break."

A joyful chatter broke out as the sea of pink in front of her disassembled. Satisfied that her girls would take her warnings seriously, her thoughts turned to more positive thoughts, such as where her and Meg could go for two weeks. Somewhere far from thee opera house, she was certain. Perhaps she would take Meg on holiday, somewhere North of Paris, to see the countryside. In fact, she knew of one person who had said they would always be more than happy to receive her as a visitor. Madame Giry smiled to herself, but that smile quickly faded.

What of Erik? What would he do?

"Absolutely preposterous," Erik paced back and forth along the shoreline of the lake, "How do you expect me, this, to go above in broad daylight?" he gestured at the mask, before resuming pacing, hands clenching and unclenching irritably at his side. His body was rigidly upright, towering over the petite ballet mistress. However, the woman standing in front of him had grown long used to this. She simply sighed, folded her arms and replied with a few sharp words,

"Erik, think reasonably about this, you cannot possibly stay here…"

"Why?"

"How are you going to eat, to start with? You usually take food from the kitchens, but with no staff here, there will be no food," she finished with an air of defiance, a glint in her eye showing pleasure at the victory she thought was hers.

"Surely cooking cannot be so difficult?" came the ever stubborn reply, "I have learned many things Madame, I am sure cooking will be no more of an obstacle for me than any other skill I have perfected."

The ballet mistress sighed for the second time that visit. Of course he would not be willing to stay with her good sister, Marie, for the period of the vacation; she had expected that, but she had still held a thread of hope that maybe today would be different, today he would not be afraid to step from the shadows and be proud of whom he really was. Nevertheless, she had come prepared with a barrage of arguments ready to fire at him, in hope that they would collectively accomplish their mission.

"Please, Erik. You know as well as I do that you cannot stay here alone in your condition. Just look at what happened the other day, after Don Juan-."

"I advise you do not bring up that subject with me again Madame. And, in answer to your argument, I can and I will stay here."

"You are incorrigible! Tell me one, logical reason why you cannot stay with my sister and I. No, before you even complain that you cannot be seen, allow me to tell you that I have made arrangements so that it would be possible for you to travel and stay there without being seen at all, by anybody. Including my sister."

Erik opened his mouth as if to reply, then promptly closed it again. His head spun desperately around the room, trying to think of some way, any way, to get him out of what was sure to be Hell. His eyes rested on a sketch from many years ago, picturing a foal standing on a bed of straw. The dark hue of its coat stood out from the straw surrounding it, as it gazed out of the drawing with a suspicious look of mischief coming from a pair of large, soft eyes.

"Caesar," he stated, "No one will feed Caesar. Therefore I cannot possibly go and leave Caesar here alone."

"Yes, that would be quite a problem," she admitted. Erik began to look hopeful, but she continued, "So we shall have him come too. I am sure he would not object to walking behind a carriage. In fact, I feel he may take great pleasure in being able to experience a few new sights and smells. What a wonderful idea, Erik! I shall see you early tomorrow morning, you know where. Goodbye for now." The ballet mistress strode out of the room without another word, a rare smile spreading across her features. She left behind a stunned looking opera ghost, who was wondering exactly how he had come to lose an argument and exactly what he had let himself in for.


End file.
